


Fortune's Winds Sing Godspeed to Thee

by Eldalire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Titanic
Genre: Multi, Sad, Titanic - Freeform, sorry for the spoiler, the ship sinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Either for work, play, or a better future, the amis find themselves aboard the grandest ship in existence.  Who could have foreseen the tragic ending of the maiden voyage?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10 April, 1912 - 11:53 PM

**Author's Note:**

> Titanic the Musical has a special place in my heart. I was cast as the Bellboy in my high school production years back, and it simply stuck with me. So I figured why not mash my two favorite musicals together into one convoluted, tragic epic? It sounded like a good idea at 11:00 last night after being in classes all day..........

“Oh goodness it’s beautiful!” Prouvaire exclaimed quietly to himself as he looked up to the ship towering above him. 11 stories high and nearly a quarter mile of steel glistened in the late morning light.  He set down his single luggage—his trunk had already been brought aboard—and simply gazed at the marvel that was the Titanic; the largest moveable object to ever exist.

            “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” a stranger said as he, too, gazed up in awe at the spectacle.  Jehan jumped, startled from his daydreaming.

            “Yes…Yes it is.” He agreed timidly, looking away.  He was horribly shy, particularly when alone.

            “René Enjolras.” He introduced himself with a bright smile, offering his hand.

            “Jehan Prouvaire.  Are you in first class, then?” he asked as one of many bellboys pushed a trolley past; two trunks reading ‘Enjolras’ were heading on board.

            “I am. And you?”

            “First as well.”  Enjolras looked him over.

            “Really? I mean, not to offend, I just—” Jehan inspected himself briefly; his red hair was long and pulled into a loose braid that hung over his shoulder, which was covered only with a poet sleeved shirt and an old, intricately woven shawl that had belonged to his grandmother. He was horribly skinny, and though his pants fit him nicely at the waist, they were far too short, and his socks were visible between his short brown boots and his cuffs. The only suitcase he carried was old as well, and the once-brightly painted script had faded long ago, making the name hardly legible.  He did not look like a proper gentleman, the sort of person who would ride in first class, but his family was very wealthy.  Jehan simply chose not to flaunt his good fortune outwardly, and instead kept it quietly to himself, only making himself comfortable, and using the rest to help people in need.

            “Oh not at all.” Jehan replied with a quiet smile.  “I do not look the part of a first class gentleman…My trunk has already boarded.” He explained.  Enjolras smiled. He was dressed very well in a tailored suit, a top hat adorning his glossy golden curls.

            “I see. And what brings you here, Jehan Prouvaire?  What wonders await you in America?”

            “I am only traveling.  I have just finished my third year at Cambridge and I am spending my summer everywhere but Paris.” He explained with a smile.

            “I am from Paris as well.  My father is sending me ahead to see to the construction of our summer home in Newport.”

            “All third class passengers, proceed at once to the gangway! You must show your boarding documents in order to board!” a booming voice called from the base of the wooden gangplank.  A swarm of people—most dressed badly and worn from work—crowded the dock. Jehan lifted his suitcase and stepped out of the way, quickly followed by Enjolras.

            “It is a shame that there are people in such destitution. I wish I could do something to help them.” Enjolras said, seeming almost bitter.  “One gives to charity with the hope that the money will go towards something good, but it never seems to show.”  Jehan nodded, watching as a woman in a thin grey dress hurried two little children along, the girl with a rag doll, the boy holding his mother’s skirt.  It was saddening, to see such poor people, but he knew they were on their way to a better life. America was the land of opportunity. They were all headed for a bright future.

            Jehan was shaken from his thoughts by a sudden jar that ended with him sitting on the dock, his trunk laying open beside him.  Enjolras hurried to his aid, as well as another man, the man who had run into him.

            “I am so sorry, Sir.” He said, offering his weather-beaten hand. Jehan took it and allowed himself to be righted.

            “That is alright.  Oh you don’t have to—” he began as the man bent to put Jehan’s things back into his luggage. It wasn’t much; only his notebooks and pages of poems—but they were very dear to him, and he was glad that none had blown into the water.  The man handed the suitcase back with a small smile.

            “I am so sorry.” He said again.

            “Please do not worry yourself.  I am alright.” He smiled.

            “Very good.  I—I have to go, I need to board. Goodbye!” he called as he hurried to the quartermaster at the bottom of the gangway to have his ticket checked. Jehan smiled to himself as the man went, enchanted by his simple chivalry and concern.  He wished he knew the man’s name.

            “Second class passengers, proceed at once to the gangway! Be prepared to show boarding passes, and then proceed then to C and D decks where your rooms are located!” the quartermaster bellowed. Another group—far smaller and more orderly than the third class passengers—approached.  All of them were quite different from each other, not the monotone grey din of the third class.  Many wore new clothes and the women donned impressive hats, looking for attention from some of the more famous first class: Mr. Astor and his young wife, The Strauss’, owner of Macy’s Department Store in New York City, and Mr. Thayer and his family, master of the Pennsylvania Raid Road. 

            A few stopped for a moment to simply look at the ship before boarding, but one young man had his eye on something else.  He was scruffy to say the least, with a dark mop of curly hair and an unshaven chin.  He held in one hand a large rectangular bag—an artist’s portfolio to hold papers and canvases—and two thick sketchbooks in the other.  A flask hung from his belt.  His gaze was fixed on Enjolras, and he bravely approached with a smug sort of grin.

            “Pardon me, Monsieur, but I could not help but notice your particular sort of beauty. Might I draw you?” he asked, looking up through his eyelashes as the taller man, who crossed his arms. There was whisky on his breath.

            “I beg your pardon, but you certainly may not!” Enjolras replied harshly. “Who are you anyhow, thinking it proper to ask such a thing?”

            “Only Julian Grantaire, a humble artist looking for a muse, Monsieur.” He replied, his demeanor still cocky, his tone seeming almost flirtatious to Jehan, who stood quietly with a smile, watching the exchange.

            “Julian Grantaire, should you not be boarding?” Enjolras replied superciliously, looking down upon the shorter, stockier man with a paintbrush shoved unceremoniously through his stubby ponytail.

            “Ah but your beauty alone is worth missing even the most magnificent ship for, Monsieur.” He replied, his words romantic, but his tone sarcastic. “Might you grace me with your name?”

            “I will not.  Now please leave me alone! I should slap you for your insolence!”

            “To be struck by such a muse would be a gift, Monsieur. I would black your boots. And since I have not been given a proper name to call you by, good sir, I shall have to refer to you only as my Apollo.” Grantaire replied haughtily, looking up fearlessly into Enjolras’ bright blue eyes.

            “Never in my life have I met someone as forward and rude as y—”

            “Last call, second class!” The quartermaster bellowed.

            “I shall see you again soon, I am sure.  Until then, my lovely Apollo!” Grantaire called dramatically with an elegant flourish of his hand.  Enjolras looked disgusted.

            “What a contemptible cur.  The only sort of artist he is, is a piss-artist.”

            “He did smell of drink…But perhaps he was only trying to be friendly.” Jehan suggested, setting his suitcase on top of his feet, holding it aloft with his toes and rocking on his heals.

            “You are a kinder soul than I, Jehan Prouvaire.

            “Have they called for first class yet?” a new voice said, sounding horribly panicked.

            “They certainly couldn’t have, look, there are two fellows here! Have they called for first class?” another gentleman, a tall, gangly fellow, called to Jehan and Enjolras. He walked swiftly towards them, followed by the first man, who was far shorter and walked with a cane to quell a limp.

            “Second class just boarded.  First should be next.” Jehan smiled. 

            “You see, Joly, we are not late at all.”

            “I thought for sure we would be.”

            “You are in first class?” Enjolras asked.

            “We are.  We would have been in second, had Joly not had the fabulous idea to pool our funds and share a first class cabin.” The taller man said with a smile.  The short young man with the cane seemed worried, but nodded.

            “Second class rooms are further down in the ship, and the further down one gets, the closer one gets to the rats in the bilge.  And rats carry bubonic plague.  Therefore it only makes sense to stay in one of the upper cabins in first class, even if that means sharing a bed.” A shiver seemed to run through him.

            “I suppose that makes sense.  I am Jehan Prouvaire.  It is good to meet you.” he offered Joly his hand, but he did not shake.

            “Joly. Emillen Joly.” He said instead, keeping his hands in place, firmly grasping the top of his cane.

            “And I am Yves Combeferre.” He took Jehan’s hand in Joly’s stead and gave it a firm shake.  “Are you traveling together?” he looked to Enjolras.

            “Oh no!  We’ve only just met!” Enjolras replied with a smile.  “René Enjolras.” He introduced himself, removing his hat before shaking Combeferre’s hand.

            “A pleasure to make the acquaintance of such a celebrity, Monsieur Enjolras.” Combeferre replied with a smile.

            “My father is the celebrity, not I.” he blushed. 

            “And you are traveling together.  Are you involved?” Jehan asked Joly quietly, looking up to Combeferre, who stood nearly a head above him.  Jehan was very small for a young man, and Combeferre was well over six feet tall.

            “No. Only medical students with ill funding.” Joly replied.

            “I will most likely be sleeping on the floor.” Combeferre added with a joking smirk, looking to Joly.

            “I am sorry, but you were well aware of my habits before agreeing to this.” Combeferre laughed.

            “Has second class boarded already?” a disheveled man asked as he ran towards the gangway, holding his ragged top hat on his head to keep it from falling.

            “Only a moment ago.” Jehan assured him.  “I am sure they will allow you to board.”

            “Dammit!” the man shouted, continuing his sprint with his single, obviously heavy suitcase, until he tripped over Joly’s cane and fell to the dock, gasping at the pain as he realized his chin was bleeding and splintered. The contents of his luggage littered the wooden planks.

            “Are you alright?” Joly asked, crouching as best he could to inspect the man’s scraped hands and chin.  Enjolras ran to him and helped him stand as Jehan placed his things carefully back inside his luggage.

            “Yes, thank you.  But I have to go, I need to get on board—” he looked to Joly and seemed to visibly calm, his breathing becoming even as he was handed a handkerchief with _EJ_ embroidered in the corner.

            “Hold that to your chin.  Press—no here.” Joly instructed, demonstrating on himself, seeming fearful of touching the young man, who still held fast to the hat on his head.

            “Thank you.” he said with a small smile.

            “It would be far easier with two hands.” Combeferre said. 

            “I will hold your hat, if you’d allow.” Joly offered.

            “I—I…I mean, no…I’ll keep it on, I just—”

            “I will not allow anything to happen to it.” Joly chuckled.  The man sighed and removed his hat reluctantly, revealing a horribly receding hairline, though he could not have been much older than twenty years old.  Joly immediately understood his embarrassment and did not mention anything, simply tending to his chin and hands, retrieving a roll of gauze from his pocket and wrapping his palms gently.

            “Thank you again, Sir.” He said as he lifted his luggage.

            “Joly, please.” He replied.

            “Bossuet.” The man smiled, seeming to forget his hurry.

            “On your way, then!  Wouldn’t want to miss the boat!” Joly chuckled, and Bossuet came to himself, continuing his dash for the gangway, forgetting his hat in Joly’s hands.


	2. 10 April, 1912 - 1:32 PM

Felix Courfeyrac carried his luggage down the corridor with his head held high, his sandy hair neatly slicked, his top hat in his hand.  He seemed impervious to the bustling crowd of first class swarming to their own staterooms around him, and quickly found his own door: B Deck number 7.

It was a lavish room, far superior to the first class rooms on other ships Courfeyrac had ridden on, and was richly decorated with quality furnishings.  Red silk lined the walls above cherry paneling, and a canopied bed with matching drapery nestled nicely in the corner.  A writing desk and sofa were also included in the decoration, and a small fireplace was lit against the wall. 

“This cabin is far too lavish for a scoundrel such as me.” He said to himself with a smirk, placing his suitcase onto the desk and opening it, placing his things into the dresser. Under his clothing was hidden his ‘little friends’, cheating devices for playing cards. 

They weren’t particularly valuable or interesting pieces of equipment, and had anyone found them, they would probably thought they had stumbled along a piece of trash. One was an under-table Bug spring to hide extra cards out of sight.  Another was a ring hold out, a clip that slipped around the finger with the outward appearance of a ring, and finally, his favorite, a small contraption called a bean shooter that made switching cards a snap.  He also brought along a collared shirt with a pocket in the cuff, called a cuff holdout, for special occasions. 

Finally, he retrieved his wallet from his pocket and double checked his ticket—Though his name was Felix Courfeyrac, the ticket read Victor Crusoe, as did his passport—not that he would actually be leaving the deck upon arrival. He was to switch ships almost immediately after the Titanic was set to arrive, and would make the return journey back to England.  That’s what he did. He rode the Atlantic crossing back and forth, gambling—well, cheating—at cards with the upper class, making money, then doing it all again.  The alias assured he would not be suspected—he changed it every few crossings—and kept his identity a secret.  Everyone had heard of Felix Courfeyrac, the famous card sharper, but nobody could seem to catch him. It was the perfect ploy, and he intended to keep it up.

 

Seven decks below, Francois Bahorel shoveled coal into one of many massive boilers that powered the great ship. He had been a miner in England for most of his life, and had hoped working on a ship would finally give him a fresh start. But there was apparently little difference between the dank mines and the gloomy boiler rooms, and the pay wasn’t nearly as good.  Just to send a telegraph cost more than he made on two Atlantic runs, and it is difficult to save when there is nothing to spare.  He sighed, leaning on his shovel.

            “Come on, crew.  Get shoveling! This ship ain’t gonna power herself!  We’ve cleared land!  Boss wants those screws up to 60 RPMs!”  Bahorel continued the backbreaking work without a word.

 

Jehan smiled when he entered his room: promenade suite B 52. It was a smaller room, with accommodations for only one, but it was perfect for tiny little Jehan. He smiled and sat on his trunk, which had been placed at the foot of his bed.  His silk sheets had also been put onto the bed, and the fireplace was lit, the flames dancing gaily.  The walls were a clean, pale blue, and all of the furniture was of a light wood. The drapery over the canopied bed was a clean white with a pattern of flowers that suited Jehan well.

            After a bit of unpacking and cleaning himself up in the bathroom, Jehan decided to go on a bit of an adventure.  The ship was nearly a quarter mile long, and as tall as a small apartment building. Surely there were adventures to be had! He pulled his hair back into a neater braid, pulled on his old shawl, and left his room, heading up the stairway to the main deck.  He wandered towards the stern as the ship cleared Wolf Rock, the last point of land before the open ocean. The view was spectacular, and he smiled to himself, watching the seabirds swoop in and out of view.

            He had gone about halfway down the ship when he saw him: the young man who had run into him on the dock.  He recognized the scruffy chin and stubby blonde ponytail, but his deep brown eyes were what Jehan remembered.  He hurried to the bench he sat on, and seated himself at the opposite end, folding his hands in his lap and pulling his shawl more tightly over his shoulders. The taller man looked to him briefly before casting his eyes down.  Jehan smiled to himself when he saw him look up again.

            “I wanted to thank you.” He said after a long moment of silence. The man finally met his eyes.

            “Me? For what?  I nearly landed you in the harbor.  I am sorry—”

            “You saved all of my poems.  Not a single one blew away.” He smiled, tugging his shawl again, the wind giving him a bit of a chill.

            “Oh…they were poems?” he gave a small scoot in Jehan’s direction.

            “Yes. I mean, they’re not very good, I just…writing makes me happy, I suppose.”

            “I’m glad I was able to save them, then.”

            “I am too.  I meant to ask…What is your name?”

            “Feuilly.” Jehan waited quietly for the rest, but none came.

            “That is your full name?”

            “Yes. I was orphaned as an infant. That was the only name I was left with.” He gave Jehan a sad sort of smile.  “But what are you called?  Surely something a bit more…complete than Feuilly.”

            “Jean Prouvaire is my given name, but I much prefer Jehan.” He fisted his hands in his shawl.

            “You’re cold.” Feuilly said, closing the space between them and shucking off his jacket, draping it over Jehan’s skinny shoulders. 

            “Oh you don’t have to—”

            “I want to.”

            “But won’t you be chilly?” Jehan asked, looking to Feuilly, noting his thin cotton shirt and trousers with holes in the knees.  He only shrugged.

            “I’ll be alright.  But you’re so skinny, you could blow away!” He chuckled.  Jehan smiled pleasantly, running his hands down his braid.

            “Thank you.  You’re terribly sweet.” Jehan replied, pulling the sleeves of the worn canvas jacket over himself.

            “What room are you in, then?” Feuilly asked after a moment of quiet.

            “I’m number 52 on the promenade deck.” Feuilly leaned away slightly, surprised.

            “First class?” he asked, taken aback.

            “Yes.” Jehan replied, worry creeping into his eyes.  Had he said something wrong?”

            “What are you doing here, then?  I mean…you may go wherever you’d like, I just—I mean—this is the third class deck.”

            “Is it?” He looked around.  The bench they shared was at the stern of the ship, and the teak deck chairs were very simple compared to the cushioned wicker sofas at the bow.  “I hadn’t noticed.”

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Feuilly slid back to the opposite side of the bench.

            “What is the matter?  You haven’t done anything wrong.” Jehan said, sliding closer to Feuilly at the end of the bench.

            “I shouldn’t have bothered you.  You’re first class, and I’m—”

            “—No less of a person than I am.” Jehan finished for him with a small smile. Feuilly looked away.

            “Most of the first class won’t give us plebeians the time of day much less hold a conversation…I’m sorry.  I should have told you.”

            “As I recall, Feuilly, I sat down to speak with you.  And, if I may say, you are much better company than most of the others in first class.”

            “Don’t say that…” he looked away again.

            “It is the truth!” Jehan replied, placing his pale hand on Feuilly’s knee, prompting him to turn and meet his eyes.  “All they ever speak about is their latest business endeavor. You are far more interesting.” Feuilly shrugged with a small, awkward smile.  He wasn’t sure what to do. All his life, he had been taught to be respectful of his superiors—which was nearly everyone, considering his social standing.  Poor orphans grew up in silence and became downtrodden, somber adults.  He had nothing, and therefore anyone with anything was immediately his superior. 

What put him off, however, was Jehan’s demeanor and style—or lack thereof—of dress. He could have been traveling in third class himself, and nobody would have questioned.  His long hair, ladylike features, and skinny build were looked down upon in the upper class.  Young men were supposed to be tall and angular, foreboding and businesslike. Jehan was more like a flower than the industrial steel the rest of his class seemed to be smelted of.

“I should have known when I heard your name.  Your family is quite famous, but I thought for sure you were of a different Prouvaire family.” Jehan shrugged.

“What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet;”

“That is lovely. Your poems must be beautiful.” Jehan giggled.

“Oh how I wish I could call those words mine!  But they belong to Shakespeare, not Prouvaire!”

“Ah…” Feuilly seemed to sadden.  “It is no wonder I have not heard it, then.  I cannot read.”

“I could teach you!” Jehan cooed, smiling his bright smile.

“It is only a six day crossing!” Feuilly replied.

“Then I will read to you. We will read Shakespeare and Homer and Dickens and Voltaire, and—oh the Divine Comedy!  You would like that, I think.  Oh it will be such fun!”

“You don’t have to, Jehan Prouvaire.  I would not want to waste your stay on such a ship reading with me indoors.”

“Oh no! No not at all. Please come.  After dinner come to my cabin and we will read, you and I. B 52 is my room. You must remember.” Feuilly nodded with a smile.

“I will. I will come and we will read.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” He smiled again at Jehan’s joy.  Emotion seemed to radiate off the tiny young man, and multiply by itself millions of times, until everything around him reflected his same joyous light.

“Then I will see you after dinner, my dear.” He added, standing and slipping the jacket off his shoulders.

“Keep it. It’s cold.  Give it back tonight after we read.” Feuilly insisted. Jehan nodded before meandering on, continuing his adventure down the length of the grand ship.


	3. 10 April, 1912 - 3:46 PM

Combeferre looked over his shoulder as he headed for the smoke room.  Joly would certainly object to playing cards or sharing a cigar, but Combeferre did not.  He was young. He was in first class. He wanted to have a bit of fun, so he took a small portion of his spending money and headed to a table of men playing auction bridge.

            “Might I join you, gentlemen?” he asked, pulling up a chair.

            “Of course!  We’ve just finished a game.” One of the men said with a smile.  “You have played before?”

            “I have.” Combeferre replied as he was dealt in.  He inspected the cards in his hand.

            “Then let’s start!  I’m eager to win my money back!” an older gentleman said with a smirk in the direction of another young man who sat beside Combeferre.  This younger man smiled calmly.

            “We shall see,” he replied, his voice like honey, sweet and thick. Combeferre chuckled at the exchange as the young man examined his cards, nearly shielding his face with the fan. The young man scratched his chin.

 

They played for a bit, and it became evident relatively quickly that this young man, whose name was Victor Crusoe, was very skilled at cards.  He quickly won the round, and the next.  Though he was not the victor of the third round, he continued his winning on the forth.

            “Well, gentlemen, I have officially lost all of my earnings, as well as what I have come with, and so I must be going, before I lose again.” Combeferre said, standing with a chuckle.  The men laughed.  Crusoe eyed him curiously with a smile.

            “We will see you again, Combeferre?” one of the older men asked.

            “I should think so!” Combeferre said before taking his leave. He was nearly back to the cabin he shared with Joly when he realized he was not alone in the hallway.

            “Crusoe,” he said,  “You, my friend, have a talent for auction bridge.” 

            Crusoe laughed, running a hand through his honey hair. _If you only knew!_ He thought to himself.

            “I have been playing for a very long time.” He admitted.

            “It could not have been so long!  You are very young.  Not much older than I, I should think.”

            “And how old are you, Combeferre?  If you do not mind he asking.”

            “I am 22 as of January the 23rd.” he said.

            “I am twenty one.” Crusoe smiled.

            “Then you could not have been playing bridge for a ‘very long time’, my friend.”

            “Ah, but I have.  At least ten years. My father taught me to play as a child.” By ‘taught to play’, he really meant that his father used him to hustle men in bars.  He didn’t teach him to play, he taught him to cheat.

            “My father taught me as well.” Combeferre smiled.  Crusoe felt his breath hitch. 

            Combeferre was not attractive, in all honesty.  His smile was contagious, and yes, he was tall, but he was gangly, with long arms and legs.  His feet and hands were quite obviously too big, and his nose had a pronounced bump at the bridge. He was pale with lackluster, brown hair, and wore massive glasses that were as thick as a pinky finger. And yet Crusoe found himself taken, swept off his feet by the awkward young doctor.

            “We seem to have a bit in common then, don’t we?” he replied with a smile.

            “Yes. We do.” Combeferre smiled. “Would you…like to come in? Perhaps we could call for a cup of tea.” Crusoe smiled.

            “Yes. Thank you, Combeferre, I would like that.” Crusoe rarely allowed himself to make friends with anyone on a ship. The more people he was close with, the higher the chance of being caught.  But this man was different.  He was sweet in a way most other men were not.  He was quiet, contemplative, and pleasant.  He allowed himself to be lead inside Combeferre’s room.

 

—o0o—

 

Joly was on a mission. A mission to return a hat to its rightful owner.

            He knew that the man, Bossuet, was in second class, and he knew that his hands and chin were wrapped, so he was hopeful he would find the man quickly. He made his way to the second class salon, and sure enough, there sat a young man with a horribly receding hairline, holding a handkerchief to his chin.  Joly smiled, hobbling over on his cane.

            “Monsieur?” Joly asked quietly.  Bossuet looked up, slightly startled, but returned the smile after a moment. “You left your hat with me on the dock!” he explained.

            “So I did!” Bossuet replied, taking it from Joly’s hands thankfully and placing it back onto his head.  He visibly relaxed.  “Please, sit. You are Joly, yes?” Joly took the invitation and sat on the seat beside him, keeping his hands on his cane, fearful of touching the public chair.

            “I am,” Joly replied, “and you are Bossuet?”

            “Yes.” He replied.

            “I am happy I found you.  I was not expecting you to run off without your hat!” Joly smiled.

            “Perhaps it was not an accident.” He said quietly.  Joly raised an eyebrow.

            “You wished to give your hat to me?”

            “No. I wished for you to return it.” He said, blushing. Joly smiled, looking down to his lap.

            “Why would you wish that, then?” Joly asked. 

            “Perhaps I think you are very charming.”

            “Perhaps I think you are very brave to say such things!” he chuckled.

            “I have little to lose,” Bossuet replied, taking his hat off and looking it over for a moment before replacing it.  “and that includes hair.” He joked.  Joly laughed. “Might I interest you in a walk down the deck?” he offered Joly his hand, and Joly, once again, kept his firmly planted on his cane.

            “I warn you, I am not quick at walking,” he replied, a bit embarrassed. Though he was a young man, cerebral palsy left him dependent on his cane.  He had a terrible limp and little control of his right leg and ankle.

            “That is alright.  I am prone to dumb luck, so I suppose we will get along well.” He smiled, and Joly returned the grin.

 

            “Why me, then?” Joly asked as they walked slowly along the rail, the water 11 stories down, clear and smooth.  He looked to the stern and watched the ship’s wake as it traveled outwards and rolled away in thin white lines.

            “What do you mean?”

            “When you dropped your hat.  Why did you drop it in front of me, of all people?”

            “Dropping it was not planned, only leaving it with you.”

            “Well why did you leave it with me?  There were plenty of other young…people.” He said, reluctant to say ‘men’. It was not common to meet another man such as himself, and harder to find any who would give him a second thought. He was not handsome, he was not particularly talented in any outward way, and he was difficult to get along with.

            He had a fear of germs and microbes that made him nearly a shut-in, and hypochondria kept him in bed most days.  He was terrified on the ship, in such close quarters with so many people.  He did not shake hands, and he did not touch anything he didn’t have to.  The cane gave him a good excuse to avoid contact with dirty surfaces.  And even so, Bossuet seemed to like him—perhaps more than like him—and had purposely, knowingly, made sure their paths would cross again.  Joly was flattered in a way he had never been flattered before.

            “You struck me as charming.  And kind. Very kind.” He explained. Joly blushed and looked away.

            “I am not.  Not charming, anyway. Not with the limp. And I am not particularly attractive.”

            “Of course you are.  You have a nice nose.”

            “It is a little large.” He replied.  “Often congested.”  Bossuet laughed lightly at the joke.

            “I think it’s grand.  And I am far less attractive than you are.  I haven’t any hair, and I’m hardly twenty!”

            “And yet here we are, walking together—friends.” Joly smiled.

            “Yes. It seems we make a good pair, you and I.”

            “A very good pair.” He took a deep breath and mustered his courage, reaching for Bossuet’s hand and grabbing it, lacing their fingers together. Joly was sure Bossuet had nothing infectious, besides his lovely smile.

 

 

 

~Hey everyone!  Sorry this took a bit to get up I was in a sort of slump...no ideas.  But I think I know where this is going now, so I should be posting chapters more often now :)  Do comment with any thoughts at all.  I really appreciate it!  Ideas and requests are always welcome! <3


	4. 10 April, 1912 - 4:57 PM

Marius screeched to a halt at the end of the dock, not bothering to stop the engine of his automobile before bursting out the door and waving his hands frantically.

            “No!” he shouted, running down the dock.  His wife, Cosette, followed him shortly.  “You have to come back!  Please!” he called fruitlessly.            “Please come back…” he drooped, and Cosette placed her gloved hand on his shoulder.

            “It’s alright, my dear,” she said with a sad sort of smile. “It isn’t a big deal.”

            “This was supposed to be our honeymoon trip!  I saved up!  I saved up…” he squeaked, defeated, watching as the ship grew smaller and smaller.

            “That’s alright, darling.  Come. We will go for lunch instead.” She smiled again, giving him a kiss on the cheek before taking his hand and pulling him back to the running car.  Marius looked over his shoulder, taking one last look at the ship before getting back into the car and heading off.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras sat down in his stateroom, enjoying the quiet after the bustle of the dock. His things had already been brought aboard, and he didn’t have to do anything but relax.  But Enjolras was a busy sort of person.  He couldn’t sit idly for long, and he soon became stir crazy inside his small stateroom.  He headed to the door and made his way to the first class dining saloon, where he sat at the window and looked out over the deck, down at the water far below. It was soothing, in a way, but very soon, Enjolras became bored with that as well, and stood again.

            The young man had always been aware of his statue in the community, his social status.  He was from an extremely famous and wealthy family, and yet he did not behave as such. Yes, he knew his manners and how to conduct business, but he was not so much a fan of the mindset of the class. All anybody seemed to do was shower themselves in their own wealth, sharing nothing, giving nothing, except with themselves.  If he had it his way, he would give to the poor and create some sort of equality in the world, even if it was small.  If he thought it would make much of a difference, he would have given his room to a third class passenger, but he thought better of it.  It would only cause anger among the others, and it would change nothing in the scheme of things—or so he thought.

            It wasn’t that he was pessimistic; not at all.  He simply wished for peace for all, and wanted only what would promote his mission of common wealth and happiness. 

 

He made his way down the hall, towards the shared first and second class well deck, where the stairs lead up to the deck.  He had only just placed his pale hand on the rail when a terribly familiar chuckle radiated through the small room.

            “If it isn’t Apollo!  How did you find your room?  Mine was far superior to what I expected.”

            “I do not care how you found your room, nor do I care to discuss mine.” He said simply, not bothering to look back to Julian Grantaire.

            “But why?  What have I done to bother you so?  I have been nothing but kind!” he said, following Enjolras up the stairs.  He ignored the artist, continuing up the stairs. “I know Gods look down upon mortals, but surely you would not simply ignore me.  Not someone as beautiful as—”

            “Why do you pester me so?” Enjolras snapped, turning to face the man, whose unruly, greasy curls fell into his oddly green eyes.

            “In all honesty, monsieur, I simply wish for a willing model who is not as horrendous as the desperate women who typically volunteer. That is all.” He replied, his tone losing its sarcastic tone as he opted instead for a more honest and humble demeanor that Enjolras took note of. 

            “Why me, then?  I am not willing.” He replied, softening, holding the door Grantaire to walk onto the deck.

            “Again, if we are being honest, I find you quite attractive, but I assume you only think I am harassing you, so I will be going.” He said, turning to leave, pulling the flask from his belt and taking a long swig. Enjolras sighed.

            “Y…You don’t need to go,” he said, mentally slapping himself. Didn’t he want this guy gone? What was he saying?! Grantaire turned, his eyes sleepy and dark.

            “You don’t need to feel pity for me.  I will find someone else, though I doubt they will be quite as striking as Apollo.” He said with a small smile.

            “Enjolras.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “My name.  My name is René Enjolras.” Grantaire’s eyes widened, and he looked to the flask on his belt.

            “Either I have been hitting the whisky too hard, or I am in a dream. Either way, I am terribly sorry for being so disrespectful to such a—”           

            “Don’t.” Enjolras stopped him by holding up his hand.  “Please do not treat me differently because of who I am. I am only a man. That’s all.  Just as you are.” He smiled for a fleeting moment.

            “I am still sorry,” Grantaire continued.  “A drunken starving artist shouldn’t be allowed within fifty meters of someone like you.” he joked.

            “Perhaps a popular piece would launch your career.” He suggested with another small smile, pushing a stray curl behind his ear with his delicate fingers. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

            “A piece needs a popular buyer to be truly a success.” He replied. “Where will I find one of those?”

            “Here,”

            “What?”

            “Right here.”

            “I do not understand.”

            “I would like to commission a portrait.  Will you be able to finish it before the crossing ends?” Grantaire’s eyes suddenly lost their drunken gloss, replaced instead by a lively shine Enjolras much preferred.

            “Yes. Yes I could.  But you’re sure?  I’ve been brutish and rude and—”

            “As have I.  Consider this my apology. Apollo-gy.” He added with a grin. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

            “Only if you swear to never make that horrible pun again.” They both laughed.


	5. 10 April, 1912 - 8:23 PM

Feuilly kept his promise, and right after dinner, he arrived at number 52 on the Promenade deck. He knocked nervously, but smiled when Jehan appeared in the doorway, dressed similarly to the way he was before, but this time in a pale pink poet sleeved shirt and simple knickers that he had neglected to tie, causing them to hand loosely around his skinny calves. His hair was even more unruly than it had previously been, and Feuilly smiled at his innocent appearance. He looked like a child who had dressed himself for the first time.

            “Oh my dear, I’m so happy you came!” he bounced up on his toes and gave Feuilly a hug, which he returned after a moment.  “Would you like tea?  Or…oh goodness where are my manners?!  Please sit down!” he smiled, offering Feuilly the chair nearest the small fireplace.

            “Nice place…” he said, looking around and sitting down cautiously on the white upholstered cushions, fearful he may dirty them somehow…

            “It is a sweet little room, isn’t it?” Jehan agreed. He hadn’t a clue the conditions the third class were living in: three to a single room, crowded quarters, and a single community bathroom: one for the men, one for the women.

            “Nicer than my old house.”  Jehan shrugged, unsure of what to say.  Though he looked destitute, he had lived in the lap of luxury his entire life. From the moment he was born, he had been kept sheltered from the wrongs of the world, but now that he was out on his own, he was beginning to understand—to see that everyone was not as happy as he was, not as carefree and kind of heart.  There were people living in squalor, and it made him ill to know the truth…that was when he began to fight it.  He decided to live his life simply, giving away many of his belongings—mostly his costly clothes—and spent his time in homeless shelters, cleaning and helping in the kitchen, though he wasn’t a very good cook—but he did try, and learned quickly.  He was a kind, soft soul, and simply couldn’t stand to see others suffer. 

            “Where did you come from, then?  And what brings you here?” Jehan asked with a smile, offering Feuilly a cup of tea he had ordered just before his arrival.  Feuilly took it apprehensively, the dainty teacup seeming out of place in Feuilly’s large, work-hardened hands.

            “I am originally from Poland.  I ran from the orphanage there when I was fifteen and made my way from there to France, and from France to England doing odd jobs.  I heard America was the ‘land of opportunity’, and I’d say opportunity is what I’m looking for.” He smiled.  “But what about you?  Why is a wealthy little lad like you traveling so far from home?” Jehan chuckled lightly.

            “I have lived in France my entire life with my mother and father…I suppose I was simply stir crazy, living in one place for such a long time…I hadn’t seen anything outside the city besides our cottage in Providence! I think I…I’m ready for an adventure.” He explained lightly.

            “Well I hope you have an agreeable adventure, Monsieur Prouvaire.” Feuilly replied.

            “Well let’s start reading!  I’ve brought lots of books with me!” Jehan stood from the armchair and opened his trunk at the foot of his canopied bed.  He dug around, tossing numerous articles of clothing onto the bed, before pulling out a worn, leather-bound volume, relatively thin, but obviously well loved. “This book is my favorite. _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , William Shakespeare.” He sat beside Feuilly on the small loveseat, getting close so they could both see the pages. Feuilly smiled to himself, casting his eyes away when he felt their sides press together.  He suddenly imagined Jehan pressed to him in a different sort of way…he wondered if the skin of his torso was as smooth as the skin of his hands and rosy face.  He shook the thought from his mind.  Jehan was showing him kindness, nothing more, and he did not want to ruin their friendship with something as selfish as love…Feuilly always believed love was the most selfish of emotions: throwing yourself so entirely at someone, hoping they would catch you and care for you.  No…Feuilly did not want Jehan to love him…At least that’s what he told himself.

 

If only he knew the flutter that was living inside Jehan…A flicker of a candle deep in his heart, growing to inferno every moment, threatening to overcome the young man with so much emotion. He was already threatening to burst! He was only a very good actor, keeping his thoughts hidden, frightened of scaring Feuilly away. Jehan knew he was not ‘ordinary’, and that many—including some of his own close family—would not take kindly to his preferences.  And so he kept quiet, and instead began to read:  
  
            _“Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour_

_Draws on apace…”_

 

—o0o—

 

Bossuet and Joly walked hand in hand for a long while, until his phobias began to get the better of him. What began as a pleasant sort of warmth radiating from Bossuet’s hand and into his became a sort of creepy crawling sensation that Joly was unable to bear very long. It was as if he could feel the microorganisms passing from the other young man to himself.  He pulled his hand away, and pushed it into his pocket, for he dared not place it on his cane.  By his reasoning, his cane was clean, a ‘safe’ item that was free of foreign material. Should he place his hand, now ‘soiled’ by Bossuet, his cane would then also become dirtied, and he would have to clean it immediately.

            Bossuet looked away, fearful he had done something wrong.

            “I’m sorry…” he  whispered, though it was Joly who had first taken his hand.

            “Oh…Oh no, it isn’t you, I…I have…” he looked to the darkening horizon, unsure of what to say.  A concerned look settled on Bossuet’s face, and he placed a hand on Joly’s shoulder in an effort to comfort him, unaware of the gravity of what he had just done. Joly flinched away.

            “I didn’t mean—”

            “Bossuet, it isn’t you, really.  I…I’m afraid of…everything.” He sighed.

            “That is alright.  Everyone is afraid of some things.  I won’t touch you again if it makes you frightened.”

            “It isn’t the touch, it’s…never mind.  It’s getting late.  I should head back to my room.”

            “Will we speak again, do you think?”

            “This is a grand ship, but not so grand that our paths will not cross again.” Joly smiled. “Shall I meet you for tea tomorrow in the grand salon?” Bossuet smiled and nodded, placing his hands in his jacket pockets to keep himself from giving Joly a hug.  He was a very physical person, and enjoyed handshakes and embraces, but he got the feeling Joly was not, and didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was.

            “I look forward to it.” He replied as Joly turned to leave, his limp making the going slow, leaving Bossuet watching awkwardly as he headed back towards the bow of the ship, returning to the first class quarters.

 

—o0o—  


Combeferre had never been one for rushing into things, but whether it be the excitement of the trip or mild intoxication from the alcohol he had consumed while playing cards, he found himself moving rather quickly in a very strange direction with a certain Mr. Crusoe.

            Combeferre had called for tea, and it was delivered in moments. He and Crusoe shared a chat over their steaming teacups, and both found that they were quite fond of each other…very fond.

            “You’re from France, then?” Crusoe asked, sipping his tea.

            “I am.  Paris, France. I’ve just finished my final year of medical school with my roommate.”

            “Your roommate?” Crusoe inquired, raising an eyebrow.  He was hoping he would be able to keep this handsome fellow to himself, but if Combeferre was already taken…

            “Yes. He’s called Joly. Emillen Joly.” He smiled, thinking of his friend fondly.  Though Joly could be a handful, he was always kind—as kind as he could possibly be with all of his fears and phobias.  “It took quite a bit of convincing to get him to come on this trip with me! The poor fellow is plagued with phobias. Not to mention the limp.”

            “You are involved, then?” Crusoe asked, hoping his answer would be no… Combeferre blushed a deep pink and pushed up his glasses.

            “Oh goodness, no.  Joly will not so much as touch me!  I feel sorry for him…He is…difficult to really love.”

            “He may be...But you are not.” Crusoe grinned, and Combeferre’s blush deepened.  He also smiled.

            “I am…flattered.” He replied.

            “But what of me?  Am _I_ difficult to love?” Crusoe asked.  He couldn’t help but think how ironic it was that he was talking about being loved and getting to know someone, when Combeferre hadn’t a clue who he really was.

            “I do not think you are difficult to…to love…at all.” He found himself leaning towards Crusoe, as if there were a gravitational attraction, and very shortly, the space between them was closed entirely.  What began as innocent conversation over tea, had become passionate kisses in hardly twenty minutes—very out of character for Combeferre, who was usually conservative and patient.

            They continued kissing quite loudly and zealously until the sound of the key in the lock stirred Crusoe, who looked over his shoulder, Combeferre still blissfully contented below him on the sofa.  Combeferre only sat up when he realized the door was open, and Joly was standing in shock.

            “I—I—” he stammered, his face flushing pale as a sheet.

            “Joly…this is Victor Crusoe.” Combeferre introduced awkwardly. Crusoe waved weakly.

            “O…Oh.” Joly replied.  “I’ll just...be going, then…” he turned and shut the door behind him.  
  
  
  
~Sorry this took so long to update!


	6. 11 April, 1912 - 8:04 AM

Grantaire arrived at stateroom A16 just after eight in the morning, his wooden box of paints as well as a sizeable canvas in his arms.  He was terribly nervous, but he wasn’t sure why…well…he was sure why.  The previous night he had done nothing but drink and think of Enjolras, thinking of an appropriate way to ask if he could paint him nude. He felt horribly deviant, and knew Enjolras would never show an interest in him, but his mind was his to keep to himself, and what happened there was none of Enjolras—or anyone’s—business. He could mentally strip whoever he felt like in his mind.  He smirked to himself at the thought.

            A moment later, Enjolras appeared in the doorway, dressed, to Grantaire’s dismay, but a bit disheveled, much to the artist’s amusement.  His normally neat, glossy curls were tousled, and his eyes were still just a bit heavy from sleep.

            “Good morning, Monsieur Enjolras.” Grantaire said with a grin.

            “Good morning.” He replied simply.  “Come in, then.  That looks heavy.” Grantaire entered the stateroom and set his things down, unfolding his French easel and placing it just in front of the sofa, where he assumed Enjolras would be sitting.  Then he unclipped the flask from his hip and took a long swig.  Enjolras watched and shook his head, disgust evident in his body language.  Grantaire took note and looked away, suddenly very ashamed of himself.

            “What would you like me to do, then?  I’m terribly sorry, I must admit I forgot you were coming.  I’m not exactly tidied.” He smiled meekly. “I’ll just comb my hair and get something proper on—”

            “No don’t,” Grantaire interjected before he could stop himself. Enjolras raised an eyebrow, and the artist blushed.  “I mean…The plain shirt…it will catch the light nicely.  So will the loose curls.” He attempted to explain, rubbing his nose nervously—a habit. Enjolras hesitated, but nodded, nonetheless.

            “Shall I sit, then?”

            “You may do whatever you’d like, just as long as you can stay still for a while.” He replied, hoping Enjolras would want to strip completely and recline… He shook the thought from his head and took another drink from his flask. He wasn’t anywhere near drunk yet. That’s why he was having such crude thoughts.  Yes. That was why…

            “Will this do, then?” Enjolras asked, sitting with his elbow on the arm of the sofa.

            “Yes. That will do…” he replied, casting his eyes down.  He was longing to do nothing but stare at the beautiful specimen of a young man, but at the same time, he was worried he would give his thoughts away, somehow. He rubbed his nose again.

            “Would it be terrible if I read while you work?  I am easily bored, you see.” Enjolras smiled brightly, and Grantaire thought he might faint.  He took another quick sip, thinking of what to say for a moment.

            “You could…But then I wouldn’t be able to see your beautiful face.” he smirked with a glint in his eye, conveying sarcasm, but quite honest. Enjolras blushed.

            “Then where shall I look?  From which side is my face most agreeable?” he sassed back.  Grantaire chuckled.

            “You look equally angelic from all angles, Apollo.  However I’m assuming you would rather not look directly at me. I am not pleasant to gaze upon.” He replied.  It was more or less true. Grantaire was not _really_ a bad looking fellow, but his scruff and unruly, wiry curls obscured the attractive angle of his jaw, and bushy eyebrows shaded his unusual brown-green eyes.

            “I’m not so sure of that…You are not as ugly as you seem to think, _Dionysus_.” He tossed back, though he immediately regretted it. Yes, it was true that he had thought about the artist…probably too much…and that he was not entirely repulsed, Grantaire’s abrasive words and behavior were difficult to overlook. As was the fact that his father would never approve…

            When he was 17, Enjolras had been caught leaving a bar while the family vacationed in London.  The particular bar and pub had a reputation for attracting less-than-conventional people...including bohemians and homosexuals.  Enjolras had been punished severely and told that should he ever be caught in another establishment of the sort or with another man _anywhere_ , he would be disowned immediately, losing his home, family, and any and all wealth due to him at any point. He was frightened, to say the least…And he wasn’t quite sure why he was finding this drunken artist so enthralling in the first place.  Confusion was an understatement, and his words had only served to lead him on. He shouldn’t have said them…

            “Dionysus? Why would you call me that? I am not godly in any sense!”

            “Yes, but Dionysus is the god of wine.” Enjolras joked, hoping to cover his tracks. A joke.  That’s all he meant…right?

            “Oh, my dear, I would need an entire cask of wine to achieve a level of normalcy!” he laughed, squeezing paint onto his wooden palate and stirring them about with a small, flexible knife.

            “Why?” Enjolras asked.

            “Why what?”

            “Why must you drink?  Why do you require inebriation?”

            “I always have.  For as long as I remember I have.  It is said that the body is comprised of 70% water.  Mine is instead 70% whiskey.”

            “It must not be enjoyable for you, then.  Most men drink for euphoria, but you clearly do not.”

            “It is not enjoyable.  But should I stop, I would be miserable.  Less-than-enjoyable is still more pleasant to miserable.”

            “I see…”

            “Why does it concern you, mighty Apollo?  What interest have you in my health and wellbeing?”

            “I simply do not understand.  Alcohol makes men brutish and foolish.”

            “You think me brutish, then.”

            “No! I mean…perhaps not.”

            “Perhaps not?  You speak in riddles this lush cannot possibly decipher.”

            “Perhaps if you stopped drinking for a while, you would understand.” Grantaire looked away, down to his paints and up to the canvas, applying his first strokes.  They were quiet for a long time, Grantaire silently reflecting, Enjolras thinking about just how un-brutish he really thought the artist was.

            He didn’t understand his feelings.  Grantaire had no obvious redeeming qualities: he was a drunk, rude, loud, intrusive—He wasn’t even particularly attractive.  His hair was a mess of greasy, wiry curls that he obviously hadn’t trimmed or brushed in many days.  His chin had also been neglected, and he was sporting not only a five-o-clock shadow, but also the beginnings of a neck-beard.  In fact, most of his visible skin was covered in dark strands; his arms, his face, his head, probably the rest of him as well—

            Enjolras shook the thought from his mind.  He had no desire to see any more or Grantaire than he absolutely had to…wasn’t that true?  Of course it wasn’t true! This was the first time Enjolras had been away from his meddling, unsupportive parents in nearly his entire life! He wasn’t going to let them stifle him! Not here!  If he wanted to kiss Grantaire full on the mouth right now, he could!  Maybe he will!—

           

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asked.  Enjolras had gone from relaxed and seemingly aloof to clenched fists and a red face in no time flat.

“Oh no! I mean—Yes!  I’m fine.  Sorry.” He looked away.

“Alright…Have you had enough for today?  Shall I come another time?”

“That may be a good idea…” he agreed quietly as Grantaire collected his things.

“When should I come back?” he asked from the doorway, his collapsible easel in his hand, and the canvas in the other. 

“Whenever you’d like, I suppose…”

“Tonight? Or tomorrow…” he added quickly. ‘tonight’ seemed too forward…but then again, he was already drunk, and wasn’t sure what was appropriate to say.

“Sure…tonight. After dinner.” Enjolras smiled meekly. “Thank you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you!  You allowed a rambling drunk into your stateroom out of the kindness of your golden heart!” Enjolras laughed.

“You are not as horrid as you believe you are.”

“You do not know me as well as you think you do.”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything. I’ve said it before; I would black your boots.”

“Let me keep this for the day.” Enjolras reached out and unhooked the flask from Grantaire’s belt, the almost-contact sparking like electricity between them. Grantaire sighed when he moved away, not because his flask had been taken, but because Enjolras’ hand had been so very close, and yet so far away…It was probably the closest they would ever be.

Enjolras looked to Grantaire, who was slightly shorter than he, and fixed his blue eyes on Grantaire’s green, waiting for a reply.

“You are withholding a bone from a begging dog."

“Ah, but perhaps without the bone, we will see what this dog really is.”

“Irritable? Miserable?  Raged?”

“We shall see.” Enjolras closed the door, the dented metal flask in his hands.  Though it fit easily in his hand, it was rather large among flasks, and it was already nearly empty, though it was hardly ten-o-clock in the morning.  He looked it over, turning it, running his fingers across it.  How could something so simple, of so little monetary value, be so important to a man?  How could such a small amount of clear liquid take a man hostage?  So many questions…But the biggest question Enjolras was turning around in his head was how Grantaire would act in the evening, after a day without his addictive ambrosia.  Would he be as he said he would be: Enraged, irritable, miserable?  Or would he be calm and put together, humble, quiet? Enjolras hadn’t a clue. He had never come across a man so dependent on alcohol…But he did hope it was the later.


	7. 11 April, 1912 – 6:32 PM

Grantaire returned to Enjolras’ cabin after what had turned into a very difficult day. He found himself reaching to his belt out of habit, only to find his trusty flask gone. Every time, he felt a fresh wave of despair, as if he had lost his best friend, and he was anxious to get back to Enjolras’, the keeper of his flask…and his heart. He knocked on the door of the stateroom, eager for it to open. Enjolras did in a moment, and he gave a meek smile before letting Grantaire inside without a word. He seemed uneasy, and Grantaire wasn’t sure what to make of it. He wanted a drink.

            Enjolras stood tentatively when he heard the gentle knock on the door. He knew it was Grantaire, and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to see him again. He had spent the day in his stateroom, attempting to finish his book, but his mind kept wandering back to the artist. From there they wandered to less than appropriate places.

            Though 23, Enjolras had never been with a woman before. He had never gone on any sort of date or taken part in any courtship. He had no interest in them or their conversation. He had snuck around with quite a few young men in his time, but hadn’t since the incident on his family vacation. He was afraid to. But now he was on his own. He wasn’t with his parents. He could do what he wanted. And he wanted Grantaire—He shook the thought from his mind just as he opened the door.

            “How was your day, then?” Grantaire asked as he set up his easel again, just as he had before, watching as Enjolras settled himself on the sofa.

            “Fine…Uneventful,” he replied with a small smile. “What about you? How are you feeling?”

            “Quite sad, honestly. I find that whiskey gives me a necessary lift. I’ve missed it.” He admitted, looking away, ashamed he had allowed things to get this bad. He couldn’t function regularly without alcohol. He wished he were a better man. Maybe then Enjolras would find him more attractive…at least more relatable. He had nothing in common with Grantaire now…

            “I’m sorry…I simply thought a sober mind would make things clearer for you, but I suppose I’ve made things worse.” He reached over to the small end table and picked up the flask, handing it to Grantaire.

            “Stop moving,” he joked with a smile as he began to paint.

            “I’m only giving this back. You must want it.”

            “I do…But I think you should keep it for now.”

            “But why?” Enjolras asked, placing it back onto the table and reassuming his position on the sofa so Grantaire could paint.

            “There is a difference between a want and a need. I want my flask, but I do not need it…But…I do need you.” he said, looking down to his palate and mixing a color, placing it just so onto the canvas. Enjolras blushed.

            “W-what?”

            “I should not have said anything. I’ll go, if you—”

            “No, don’t,” Enjolras cut in, worried he would leave. That was the last thing he wanted. “Please stay. But sit. Here, with me.” He tossed a pillow from the sofa and into the chair, making room for Grantaire to sit beside him. He did, but pressed himself against the opposite arm, worried to get too close.

            “What do you need me for? I mean, I know you need the business, but—”

            “Yes…I do…But that isn’t why I really need you…”

            “Then why do you?”

            “It seems that without the alcohol, my mind has found a new addiction…I will sound like a fool to say it, but I’ve thought of nothing but you all day.”

            “Then we are both fools. I’ve thought of little besides you.” he replied, leaning closer to Grantaire, closing the space between them on the small sofa. Grantaire found his hand pulled toward Enjolras’ cheek, the soft, smooth skin there seemed to attract his fingers, and he couldn’t help but touch that slender jawbone. He leaned into the touch, placing his own hand over Grantaire’s, drawing closer, until he could smell the paint that permeated Grantaire’s clothing. He much preferred it to the whiskey he smelled of before, and said so.

            “I do not miss the drink on your breath,”

            “Then I shall never drink again.” He whispered as he eliminated the space between them, Enjolras recoiling only slightly in surprise when Grantaire took his bottom lip between his own.

            The kiss lasted a long moment, Enjolras sitting upright, nervous, but crackling with excitement, Grantaire leaning towards him, his large, work-worn hands cradling his pale, porcelain cheek. When they finally parted, Grantaire was first to look away.

            “I should not have done that,” he said, looking to the door, his hands clasped in his lap nervously.

            “Why not?” Enjolras replied, moving down the sofa, closer to Grantaire, taking his hand and threading his willowy fingers with Grantaire’s thick, calloused ones.

            “It would never—I mean…we could never be…anything. And anyway…what would you want with a brute like me?” he smiled meekly, his grin crooked and endearing. Enjolras sighed sadly, knowing Grantaire was right, but playing with the possibilities in his head for a moment before tightening his grip on Grantaire’s hand.

            “We’ll run away,” he said. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

            “What? What are you talking about? You can’t just leave your whole life. You have a family…a fortune.”

            “America is the land of opportunity,” he replied. “There is no better place to run away to.” He smiled.

            “Have you been sneaking sips from my flask, Enjolras?” he joked.

            “I have not!” he laughed lightly. “I just…I don’t know what I’m feeling…I’ve only known you a day, and yet…”

            “Well…Let me continue to paint, then, and we’ll see if your feelings make themselves clear by the end of our voyage.” Grantaire grinned.

            “That sounds fair to me.” Enjolras replied, reassuming his position on the arm of the sofa, a giddy blush painting his cheeks. Grantaire captured it perfectly.


	8. 14 April, 1912 – 1:42 PM

Bahorel looked up from his newspaper when he heard the buzz of the telegraph on the table, pulling on his headphones and listening to the clicks, writing down the code and converting it to letters. A message from the Baltic, a ship a few days ahead of Titanic, sent a message. Bahorel scribbled it down.

 

_Greek Steamer Athena reports icebergs and great quantities of sheet ice today_

 

The message was followed by coordinates Bahorel also wrote down. The moment he finished, he rushed to the first class dining hall, where the captain was having his mid-day meal among the upper class. Captain Smith did not seem pleased to see Bahorel.

            “Captain, there’s been another iceberg warning from the Athen—”

            “Yes, yes, I know! This is the third one today! I have it under control. Back to your post, please,” he said gruffly, looking up from his conversation with the Wideners. Bahorel sighed heavily, but followed orders, and returned to the telegraph room with his slip of paper, tacking it to the board in the chart room on the way.

 

—o0o—

 

Feuilly had gone to Jehan Prouvaire’s promenade suite every day of the voyage thus far, and every day, they read for long hours, Prouvaire never tiring of reading aloud, occasionally acting out the parts of their Shakespeare plays. Each day, Feuilly fell more and more in love with the poet, who he soon found out was actually quite talented, despite his modesty. Jehan explained that nobody had ever heard his poems, that he thought they were poorly written and served only to keep himself from bursting with bottled emotions. But when Feuilly insisted he read them to him, he found himself enthralled by Jehan’s beautiful language. Though he didn’t know what many of the words meant, being uneducated, just the way Prouvaire said them had meaning.

            He came earlier and earlier in the day, and he found that, the more time the two spent together, the more open Jehan became. Though ‘shy’ was unfitting to describe the young man, he was quiet, and kept to himself. He would be physically very close, and was unafraid of contact, but his mind flitted about, and he seemed detached. But by spending more time with him, Feuilly found that Jehan was able to pull himself back into their present, and became very close with Feuilly, though it had only been four days. He had gone from sitting beside Feuilly to, more or less, sitting in his lap, his skinny legs draped over his, a book resting on his knees, using Feuilly’s shoulder as a headrest, simply snuggling up under his arm, and a million other tangles of positions. Jehan was like a child, unable to sit still for very long, but Feuilly didn’t mind. He enjoyed their time together.

            After dinner on the 14th, after four days spent almost exclusively together, reading or otherwise, Jehan did something that caught Feuilly completely off guard.

            They had just finished Romeo and Juliette, and were beginning As You Like It when suddenly Jehan tilted his head up from where he sat, hunkered at Feuilly’s side, and kissed him gently at the corner of his mouth. Feuilly stiffened, though Jehan immediately returned to reading as if nothing had happened. After another line of text, Feuilly was unable to keep silent.

            “W-why did you do that?” he asked, startled, wondering if he had imagined it.

            “Because…I felt like I should, I suppose,” Jehan replied quietly, honestly, and with a small smile.

            “Oh…I…alright,” Feuilly replied, confused. Was Jehan really so sheltered that he did not understand the gravity of a kiss? Kisses were only for people in love, at least as far as Feuilly knew, and Jehan could not possibly love him, not so soon. But Feuilly was sure he loved Jehan…perhaps love moved faster than originally anticipated. They were on board the largest moving object in the world. A floating city. A miracle. The rules of the world seemed not to apply on this ship. Anything could happen. Everything was a possibility.

            “Was that not good?” Jehan questioned, his smile floating away and becoming a worried frown. “I’ve never—I mean, I haven’t done this—whatever it is we’re doing…I haven’t—” he babbled, his poetic language seeming to leave him as he panicked. Feuilly quieted him with another kiss, taking Jehan’s cheek in his hand, running his thumb from his nose to his bottom eyelashes in an arc. Jehan leaned into the contact, melting into Feuilly’s chest, the scruff on his chin making his pale cheeks red. His eyes closed, and he kept them closed even as they parted. Feuilly watched as a small smile crept across his face.

            “That was very nice,” Jehan cooed, his blue eyes finally fluttering open. Feuilly grinned.

            “Your face is so smooth. I’m sorry I’ve scratched it with my scruffy chin!” he laughed.

            “That’s alright. I like your scruff. Nobody I’ve ever been really introduced to has whiskers like yours!”

            “You mean not shaved nicely?” he chuckled again. Jehan rolled his eyes.

            “At least you can grow a beard. People tell me I look like a girl…”

            “I think you’re quite good looking, Jehan Prouvaire. It is a shame you and I cannot really be together.”

            “Why would you say that?” Jehan replied sadly, taking Feuilly’s cheek in his hand.

            “You are from a family famous for their wealth! You’re the golden son of the Prouvaire estate. And I am nobody. I have less than a franc to my name.”

            “You are not nothing,” Jehan insisted, shaking his head. “The first day of this voyage I told you that. I told you that you are no less of a person than I. And you are a person I think I may love.”

            “And I think I may love you.”

            “Then we will be together, no matter what the circumstance. Like Romeo and Juliette.” He smiled.

            “I do not want you to kill yourself on my account!” he laughed.

            “We will be a happier Romeo and Juliette. We will be together, if we are meant to be.” He smiled sweetly as the clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight. Feuilly stood.

            “I should go…It’s late.”

            “You could stay here! I mean…If you’d like…You could have the bed, and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

            “It is alright. I’ll head back down—”

            “Stay. Please stay. I want you to stay.” He admitted meekly.

            “At least allow me the sofa so you might sleep on the bed.”

            “You are too tall for the sofa!”

            “Perhaps we should compromise,” Feuilly said with a cheeky grin. Jehan caught his meaning.

            “Then we shall share the bed. I am very small. I think there will be room for two.” He smiled, giving a hop before turning into the bathroom to ready himself for bed. Feuilly sat on the sofa, smiling like an idiot.


	9. 14 April, 1912 - 1:02 AM

A feeling of dread swept over Bahorel when he heard the aftermath of the telephone call on the bridge. An iceberg. An iceberg straight ahead.

            The blood drained from his face, his hands becoming numb.

            Moments later, a soft rumble rattled through the very bones of the ship. He knew what had happened before anyone said anything, and was already tapping the message when the captain bellowed:  
            “Bahorel! Send a CQD to all surrounding vessels! Immediately! We’ve struck an iceberg.”

            His fingers tapped wildly at the telegraph machine, sending the distress signal, one after the other, over and over again, to little avail.

            “There isn’t anyone in the area, Sir,” Bahorel replied, fearing he may faint. The captain whispered something to the head of the wait staff, who hurried from the room, before turning his attention to Bahorel, who sat frozen at his post, his finger poised above the telegraph machine.

            “The _Californian_ ,” he nearly shouted, “She was less than fifty miles away last she checked in,”

            “There’s no reply,” Bahorel admitted, feeling himself begin to tremble. The captain’s face paled, and Mr. Andrews, the ship’s builder, burst through the door of the bridge.

            “There’s a gash on the starboard side below the water level, Captain. Six of the watertight compartments are breeched,”

            “But that’s alright. You said those compartments are watertight.”

            “The ship was designed to stay afloat with three breeched, maybe four, but most certainly not six,”

            “What are you saying?” the captain replied. Bahorel became dizzy. He knew the answer that was coming, and he knew the next telegraph he sent was going to be to his next of kin.

            “Titanic is sinking. We have an hour and a half. Two at most.” Bahorel felt his innards turn to lead.

 

—o0o—

 

Combeferre woke in a daze to an insistent banging on the cabin door. When he sat up from his sofa-turned-bed, he saw Joly shuffling towards the door, opening it for the young bellhop who stood in the frame.

            “I’m very sorry to disturb you, Sir,” he said in his light, childish voice, “But the captain has requested all first class passengers report to the dining salon with life preservers.” Combeferre saw Joly stiffen.

            “Why is that?” he asked. The young boy looked like he might cry as he shook his head and replied, “I don’t know.”

            “Alright. Thank you,” Combeferre said with a smile, standing behind Joly, rubbing at his eyes.

            “What’s that about?” Joly asked, his face colorless, his knuckles white on his cane. “Should we go?”

            “I’m sure it’s nothing. A drill. A test. Come. We will go and see what’s the matter. Have this.” he reached under the bed and retrieved their life vests. Joly took his tentatively, a look of disgust on his face. “They’re brand new! This is the maiden voyage!” Combeferre chuckled. Joly did not look convinced, but they left their room, joining the rest of their deck mates in the corridor, all in their pajamas, all headed to the grand salon.

 

Feuilly and Jehan had only just gotten under their covers when there was a knock on their door as well, receiving a message similar to Joly and Combeferre’s. Jehan took Feuilly’s hand, frightened, his eyes blown wide.

            “Don’t worry. They haven’t said anything’s wrong…We will stay together. Everything will be alright.” He smiled and handed Jehan a life vest, which was far too large for his skinny, girlish shoulders, and they paraded down the hall with the rest of the first class. Feuilly couldn’t help but feel guilty. He didn’t belong there…And where were the third class passengers supposed to go? He didn’t want to ask. He was afraid he would be sent away somewhere, somewhere he couldn’t be with Jehan.

 

Enjolras’ first thought upon receiving the request to go to the salon was Grantaire. They had spent nearly every waking moment together since the night of the 11th, and if Enjolras had it his way, they would have spent every sleeping moment together as well, but Grantaire refused. Now, in the middle of the night, he was being forced from his room, and he wondered if Grantaire was experiencing the same.

            “Excuse me,” he said, tapping the young bellhop on the shoulder as he turned to go to the next door. The boy whipped around.

            “Yes, Sir?” he replied.

            “Have the second and third classes been asked to gather as well?” The boy shrugged.

            “I don’t know. They only told me to wake everyone in this corridor.” He explained. Enjolras nodded.

            “Thank you,” he said before retrieving his life vest, slipping down the hallway leading not to the salon, but to the stairwell—to the second class corridor.

            To his surprise, he was greeted with a similar scene in the second class hall, the passengers muttering, confused, and heading towards the first class salon. Enjolras caught Grantaire’s eye relatively quickly, and ran to him.

            “What are you doing down here?” he asked as Enjolras took his hands, the flood of other second class passengers weaving around them like rapids around a stone.

            “Making sure you were alright,”

            “Why wouldn’t I be alright? It’s only a drill, I’m sure,” he replied with a crooked grin.

            “You think so? They haven’t told you anything either?”

            “Well what’s the fun of a drill if you know what’s happening?” he smirked, and Enjolras shook his head, taking his hand discreetly and following the crowd.

 

—o0o—

 

The Grand Salon was packed to bursting.

            Every first and second class passenger was crammed into the room, and, though expansive, it was not nearly large enough. Joly stood at the wall, in the corner, craning his neck so as not to let his chin touch his life vest. Combeferre stood beside him, stoic and silent.

            Bossuet was amazed at the overall excellence of the first class salon, and was sorry he could not truly enjoy the amenities with the crowd. He skirted the room, bumping life vests with so many wealthy, famous Americans, he could hardly keep track—Mr. Thayer offered him a hand when he tripped. Mr. Aster’s arm brushed past him. He really was sorry for the situation. He would have been in complete shock at his luck, to be so near the upper crust. But instead he worried. Everyone was buzzing, yet nobody seemed to have any idea what was going on.

            He smiled when he caught sight of Joly, and hurried to his side. Combeferre’s face lit up when he saw Joly’s grin—it was not easy to make him grin.

            “Joly,” Bossuet began, standing beside him. “And Combeferre, yes?” he asked, struggling to remember the name of Joly’s bunkmate. Combeferre nodded. “Do either of you know what’s happened?”

            “I heard something about lightly scraping something or other…Nothing serious, I think they may have just wanted a head count.” Combeferre replied.

            “I do hope so…I’d like to be rid of this,” he tugged at his lifejacket.

 

The moment they reached the salon, Jehan became distressed. The room was packed, yes, but only with first and second class passengers. He looked to Feuilly, whose hand he held tightly with worry.

            “Is anyone from your deck here?” he asked. Feuilly shook his head, keeping quiet. He didn’t want to be sent away for being in the third class. “Where are they, then?”

            “I don’t know. Maybe there’s another meeting place. I’m sure it isn’t a problem.” He assured him as the head of staff, a Mr. Etches, shouted over the din.

            “We have just received word there has been damage to a wing propeller. There could be a delay of an entire day, but there is nothing to fear. The captain has asked everyone to stay put until the situation can be properly assessed.”

            “That’s rubbish!” someone shouted. “This is not what I paid for!”

            “Terribly sorry, sir, but there is little I can do at this time. For now, please put on your life belt and await instructions!” he shouted over the gathering noise, frustrated billionaires pelting him with questions.

            The din of voices soon grew to cacophony, everyone in a tizzy, milling around, some frightened, some irritated, others irate. Most just tired and wishing to return to bed. But just when it seemed the rumble could get to louder, a single sound hushed the room: the squeak of a wheel, the wheel of a tea cart as it rolled slowly across the hall, seemingly of its own accord. But everyone knew teacarts could not move on their own…It had to have been…on an incline.

            “If everyone would please relocate upstairs…” Mr. Etches mentioned, every eye wide in fear, glued to the single, empty teacart. Jehan’s lip quivered, and he pressed himself to Feuilly’s side. Feuilly only stood frozen in fear.

 

As Combeferre accompanied Joly and Bossuet to the deck of the ship, he felt a light tap at his shoulder. When he turned, he immediately recognized the honey waves of Crusoe’s hair, and smiled meekly with a deep blush. He hadn’t been in the company of the man since their run-in on the first day of the voyage, and was embarrassed, to say the least.

            “Mr. Crusoe,” he said in greeting.

            “Combeferre.” He replied, his tone grave. He removed a slip of paper from his pocket.

            “What’s the matter? Well…I mean…besides everything…But surely everything will turn out alright—” Combeferre began to babble, whether out of fear or embarrassment was impossible to tell. Crusoe held a finger to his lips, silencing him.

            “I’ve been a terrible liar to you, Combeferre. But even so, I must ask a favor of you, if you can find it in your heart…”

            “What? What do you mean?”

            “Make sure this note reaches my sister. The address is on the envelope.”

            “Why can’t you send it yourself?”

            “I count things,” he admitted somewhat sternly, Combeferre shook his head, misunderstanding, the rest of the crowd continuing and leaving them alone in the hallway. “I count cards, Combeferre. And I count lifeboats. There aren’t enough.”

            “Aren’t enough? But…?” he turned the letter over in his hands, the name ‘Courfeyrac’ written in a messy script. He looked up and met ‘Crusoe’s’ eyes.

            “Courfeyrac. Felix Courfeyrac is my name,” he admitted, his bright eyes seeming to fill with the promise of tears, though none came.

            “The card sharper?” Courfeyrac nodded before taking Combeferre’s shoulder and guiding him closer, taking his lips in a kiss in hardly a moment.

            “I am sorry. But I am more sorry that we will not be allowed to continue…whatever this is that we have…had…”

            “I…” Combeferre wasn’t sure what to say, and simply stood still in the hallway, until a frantic-looking maid hurried them along.

 

—o0o—

 

Jehan felt his heart turn to lead as he and Feuilly reached the deck, the air frigid against his hands and face, all that was exposed outside his wool pea coat.

            “Where’s the third class?” he asked, frantic, craning to see further down the deck, hoping to see the missing group gathered towards the stern, but there was no one there. “Feuilly where’s the rest of the third class?!” he nearly shouted, his eyes becoming tearful.

            “I don’t know, Jehan. It’s alright. I’m sure they’re alright, stay here—!” Jehan slipped from Feuilly’s grip on his shoulder and ran towards the nearest staff member.

            “I am sorry, Sir, but I really cannot—”

            “Where is the third class?” Jehan broke in, frantic, tears freezing against his cheeks.

            “Do not worry for them, Mr. Prouvaire, they—”

            “Where are they!?” he shouted, shaking the man’s shoulder.

            “Down below!” he replied, his own face contorting in distress.

            “What?! The ship is on the way down and there are people down there?!” he ran for the stern before the man could stop him, Feuilly hot on his heals.

            “Jehan!” he called down the dark stairwell as Jehan rushed below, rounding the corner and ignoring Feuilly’s calls.

            He ran all the way to the bottom of the stairs, to the door leading to the third class quarters, the glass porthole in the door revealing frantic faces, muffling screams and shouts for help. Jehan tried the door. It was bolted shut.

            “Why can’t I open it!?” Jehan shrieked, collapsing against the door, sobbing. Feuilly stood at the window and used his hand to motion towards the back of the ship, where the boiler room was located. They would be able to leave through there—that’s how he had been able to visit with Jehan. Very few of the passengers understood. Water began to seep under the door. Feuilly dragged Jehan away, back up the stairs to safety—for now.

 

The ship was beginning to list when Enjolras and Grantaire reached the rail, leaning around the crowd to catch sight of the nearest life boat, believing there to be enough. Suddenly Grantaire stiffened.

            “The painting.” He said under his breath before dashing away, back towards the bow of the ship—Enjolras’ quarters.

            “Grantaire what are you doing?!” Enjolras shouted after him, meaning to following him.

            “Stay here! Stay in line and get on the lifeboat, I’ll be right back, I promise you.” he replied.

            “Where are you going?!”

            “The painting! It’s in your stateroom!”

            “Forget it! What if the ship goes down and you’re away? I don’t want to leave you!”

            “I have to get it, Enjolras, it’s all I have!”

            “You can paint another!”

            “No! Not like this…” he turned and ran, too fast for Enjolras to follow. All he could do was bellow a desperate “Grantaire!” before returning to the rail.

 

The first class hall was quiet when Grantaire reached Enjolras’ room, and it would have been quite pleasant, but the tilt in the doomed ship was distressingly evident. He entered the stateroom, his painting of Enjolras finished and sitting on the mantle, clinging desperately to the wood, friction the only thing saving it from sliding to the floor. Grantaire grabbed it.


End file.
